The Breaking of Dawn
by lionessladyknight
Summary: What became of the characters after they were rescued? Our favorite characters come back... Roger, sadistic and cruel as ever, Ralph, moral and upstanding, and Jack, malevolent and wicked... but has he changed? Same as Darkness, but revised.


The setting was dark and dank, the lighting low, the gloom overpowering; here was a place of vagabonds and criminals; here was a place where goodness was scarce and malevolence reigned eternal. Out of the shadows one could make up an indistinct shape, huddled in the corner. Once one's eyes adjusted, said shape could be deciphered as to be human; a man of middling age and overpowering stench.

"Roger?" A man's voice called out into the gloom. "Is that you?" The man's voice was proper and educated, but had an undercurrent that suggested he was little better than the surroundings in which he stood.

"Perhaps." A guttural voice answered, hardly human.

"Good. It is you. I have a job for you, should you wish it."

"Hmph. And this job would be…"

"One quite suited to you and your abilities. I've heard that you've come quite a way since our pleasant stay on that island as kids. I'm offering you a place as my "official torturer" if you will. I know how much you seemed to enjoy that."

"Ah. Those good old days. I wish we never had been rescued. That plan we had for Ralph was something. I always hated that kid. Too big for his britches. Full of lofty and stupid ideals. And that horrid conch shell. I'm glad about what I did to Piggy. Not one bit of remorse on my part. Blasted boys." The latter half of this was said more to himself than to any one; reliving his memories seemed to bring him a sort of diabolical pleasure.

"Bleh. You're even more sadistic than I remember you to be. Quite disturbing. What has the last twenty years done to you, my friend?"

"Ha. Friend. You have a strange usage for the word. As I seem to recall, I disgusted you. You merely tolerated me because you didn't have the stomach to do anything except kill pigs."

"Well. Friend or no, you will find me much changed. In fact – "

Here he was cut off. "I don't care what this blasted world has done to you. Not even remotely. So you get to the point right now and tell me what my job is before I either put this here bullet through you and save myself some bother, or – "

"Alright. You know that gun in your hand doesn't scare me. I've seen my share of fiends these past years; a few worse than you, if you can believe it. And I wouldn't be putting a bullet through me because what I'm about to say would die with me. I haven't forgotten that last day on the island, you know. And now I have plans for revenge. Something you will most definitely enjoy, involving the capture of Ralph."

He was answered by a grin so sadistic and cruel, he had a moment of doubt and his resolved weakened; for though he might not recognize it at the time, he did have a morsel of goodness. And even though it was only a morsel, it was there.

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Many, many miles away from the sinister place I have just taken you, lies a place of learning and peace; a place that could be considered as the very opposite of Roger's lair. It is Oxford, the prestigious college that many a young fellow has dreamt of. And in a garden of said Oxford, we find the object of our two gentlemen's – for lack of a better term, though they hardly deserve it – conversation. Ralph, or as he was called now, Professor James Burnside, was immersed in a novel of giant proportions. He seemed at peace; quite an accomplishment for all of the things that he had been through since his plane crashed on that fateful day. For you to fully understand him, and the torturous life he has endured thus far, let me give you, dear reader, a little background on the fellow.

Upon returning to England, he was surrounded by a great deal of reporters and media, all wanting to know about his adventures. He avoided; he lied; but all to no avail. The story got out (though in a rather twisted way), and his life was miserable. The country was done with the war, and apparently its citizens had nothing else to occupy their time; so all eyes were turned on him. It disturbed him greatly, and the horrors of the past went unforgotten, creeping up on him in his weakest moments. He was haunted, and those next few years were nothing more than torture. His parents worried, removed him from school, and brought him to the finest doctors of the fine nation of England. When nothing of that nature worked, they went outside country, for they loved him deeply, and didn't wish to see him waste away. But gradually he came back to himself, and threw himself into his studies. Anything and everything fascinated him; and with this newfound love of learning, he began to come to terms with that brief, but seemingly eternal, time on the island. He grew stronger day by day, and his parents began to hope again. They made arrangements for him to go to the finest college in all of England: Oxford. And when he became of age, there he went. His first few months there were bliss, and it seemed as though the past that had troubled him so greatly before was now a vague memory. He forgot all about it, so absorbed was he; until a fateful morning in January, upon which he received a letter. A letter from a person he had hoped to never see again; Jack. It read:

_Ralph – _

_I'll make this missive short, for I have better ways to spend my time than on you. I just wished to convey my deepest sorrow at the fact that because of me you probably won't be around much longer. Don't fret; I'll wait to commit this atrocity until your parents are gone, so as to not give them any grief. That should make you feel better. I just need to finish a few things that went undone the last day on the island; I haven't forgotten, you see. But perhaps, if I'm in a good mood – I rather doubt it though – I'll let you live. _

_Until then, my friend – _

_Jack_

Upon reading this, Ralph went into shock. And it wasn't until the next spring that his life had some semblance of normalcy. Somehow, miraculously, his grades were maintained and his parents lived on. But he knew he didn't have much longer, for his parents' health was fading. He spent his summer vacation with them, catering to their every whim, and it was with tears in his eyes that he departed for school once more. From the contacts that he had made during a brief stay in London, he was able to create a fake identity for himself. He enlisted in the army – for yes, England had engaged herself in yet another war – thinking that if it was destined for him to die, at least he could do it with honor. But even that war ended, and without any tragedy on his part. He returned to find his parents dead, and he mourned greatly. The war had changed his outlook on life, but he still remained the altruistic soul that he had always been, with a passion for learning. He was able to return to Oxford, and complete his education with the highest of honors. He discovered that this was what he wanted to do with his life, so though he never forgot the letter, he went on with his life. And it is here where we meet him; Professor James Burnside, teacher of philosophy at the grand college of Oxford.

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"Professor?" A tentative voice brought our Mr. Burnside out of his deep reverie. Said tentative voice belonged to a student, who looked distinctly disheveled and slightly nervous upon addressing such an esteemed figure.

"Ah yes. You're in one of my classes, aren't you? Please forgive me; - I've forgotten your name."

"Percival. Percival Wemys Madison, that is."

"Oh! I remember you! I knew you looked familiar. Of course… but that was so many years ago… I haven't seen any of the boys since then…" He trailed off, seemingly caught up in memories.

"I'm sorry sir, but I think you mistake me for someone else. I don't think I've encountered you before."

"Why of course you have! Though I don't blame you for blocking out memories of it…" He finished with a shudder.

"Of what? I'm sorry, sir; I don't follow your train of thought."

"The island. When we were boys. You were about six at the time, if I remember correctly."

"Why yes! I was on that island. But I don't recall any person by the name of James Burnside. Sorry, sir."

"James! Why of course there wasn't a James! What would make you think that?" The Professor asked, incredulously. "I've never said anything about a James! I was talking about me." Clearly, he had forgotten the rather important fact of his identity change.

"Excuse me sir, but I was lead to believe that that was your name. Professor James Burnside."

"Why of course it isn't! It's Ral – " But here he cut himself off, for too late he realized his mistake: of course the poor fellow didn't remember! Indeed, there was no James on the island; not one that he could remember anyway. And he had just as good as admitted that he was under an alias! What if Percival couldn't be trusted? After all, Ralph certainly didn't know how he had changed over the years… What if the truth came out? Then, he would not only be disgraced and fired from his teaching post; Jack would discover him! And he could not let that happen. Ever.

"Ralph? I remember Ralph. But you're not him! At least your name says you aren't, and neither does your appearance."

"Of course not! I don't know what came over me… Most likely I'm just still stuck in the land of books." He replied, hoping and praying that Percival would let it slide and forget all about it.

"Well, Professor, I was wanting to ask you about the assignment…"

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Clouds had come through Oxford in the past few hours, turning the unusually sunny day into a normal one of dreariness. The rain pelted hard on the windowpanes, but not even that could disturb our Professor Burnside from his deep contemplation of life and lessons learned. He was painfully bringing back memories, and sifting through them; things he hadn't thought about in years, things he had pushed to the back of his mind and hoped to God that wouldn't resurface were brought back now, and thought about with new clarity and purpose. He remembered those days where fear reigned supreme, and evil deeds were done; when his dear friend, the one loyal and trustworthy person left on that godforsaken place, was viciously murdered by that foul Roger; when on that horrid evening, even he himself had taken leave of his senses enough to participate in the slaughter of Simon. _That cannot happen again_, he thought. _And nor will it, if I have any say in the matter._ And with that in mind, he purposefully got up and strode to the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

"Percival? May I speak to you a minute?" Ralph called cautiously from the door.

"Why of course, Professor," came the answer, and the door was immediately flung open with a welcome, if not wary, smile.

"Are you alone here? There is a matter of great importance that we must discuss, and we mustn't be overheard."

"Yes, I am. Please, do come in. Would you like some coffee?"

"I most certainly would, thank you." The normal pleasantries having been exchanged, and the coffee fresh in his hands, he began to tell his tale right from the day that he left that island. He left nothing out, baring his soul to this young man before him. It occurred to him as a rather odd thing to do, for he never was at all close to Percival, and some of the things he was telling him were things that he had before hardly dared to admit to himself. The hours went by, and the sun set, along with it coming darkness. But still he talked on, anxious to get his story out and to make Percival understand. It was crucial; perhaps he hadn't realized the full extent of his feelings until then, and how pent up they had been. But after many cups of coffee, at long last he was done; his duty was over. Now was the time to see if Percival had changed enough over the years to maintain his confidence even if coerced to reveal Ralph's true identity. Full of hope, he looked up at his pupil, seeing him truly for the first time all evening.

"Well?" He asked, impatiently.

"That's quite a story there, Professor. Or Ralph. Or whatever you prefer to be called."

"Ralph's fine."

"Well then. To be honest, Ralph, I'm quite scared. Now, just like you, I too have had a rough time of it and come a long way. But still, I have set up a good life for myself, and have no wish to ruin it by siding with you and end up dead." Here he paused and held up a hand for silence, for Ralph looked on the brink of interrupting. "Just hear me out, that's all I'm asking. I promise to not reveal your true identity to anyone. But if the time comes to choose between life and betraying you, or death and siding with you, I believe I'll choose the former rather than the latter. Please do not hold this against me; I only wish to live long enough to see my son grow up (I have a wife who's expecting, you see). I know that if you had family, you would probably choose this option too. However I wish to convey my deepest wishes that nothing sinister in nature happens to you, and that you live a long and fulfilling life. And with that, I must ask you to leave; I have studying to do, and the hour is quite late." He got up, and opened the door. "Good evening."

Slightly in a daze, Ralph acquiesced. He had just talked for hours to someone he thought would've understood, and yet he had been met with rejection. It was horrid. It felt horrid. He felt horrid. How could that have happened? He was sure that he had been doing the right thing, but perhaps not. Perhaps it was foolish to believe that one of those people on that ghastly island would've understood. Perhaps it was foolish to believe in the goodness in people's hearts. Perhaps it was foolish to believe that one soul still existed out there who would become his friend, and share his view of what had happened. Perhaps it was foolish even to believe that he could be alive in a few years. But then again, it was highly improbable that he had made it this long. And if this long, why not longer? Where was it written that people were hard-hearted fools? Where was it stated that there was no good in the world after all? And what was it that could make him believe all of that rubbish about men and how their very nature was evil? It couldn't be. The world had goodness in it. Perhaps he had yet to see it in large quantities, and perhaps it had turned him a little pessimistic; but perhaps also there was a chance for him to defy the norm and what was expected of him; perhaps it didn't have to be this way; perhaps, he could continue on with his life as though the exchanges of the evening had not affected him. He would treat Percival as he did any other of his students. And he would personally see that the good in the world was brought to light, and that through his efforts something had changed for the better.

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"It's time." These two ominous words were pronounced with utter loathing. "Do what you were instructed to do. Leave nothing out. Destroy anything that could be traced back to me. Here is your payment. But if I find out that anything, anything at all, went wrong, you will pay. And I will find you. Don't forget that. Go now. Carry out the deed, and take your sadistic pleasure in it. Have your fun."

His response was a brusque nod and one of Roger's trademark diabolical grins. And then Roger was off, and the train of events was set in motion. Jack stared on, and a diabolical grin of his own began spreading over his face. He could finally finish the business he started out to do, twenty years before.

It was a dark and stormy night, akin to those you hear about in ghost stories; rain and hail pelted the windowpanes in a more truculent fashion than usual, and the wind whipped ferociously through the trees. So sonorous was the gale, one could hardly hear one's own thoughts. And it was on this particular evening in which the final event of this tale occurred; a dastardly one at that, but one that is needed in order for my telling of our character's lives to be completed. Ralph had long been asleep, as the past few days had left him quite exhausted; he had done what he promised to do in terms of making the world a better place. Through his assiduous work, one hundred common city-folk now had the opportunity to enter the high-class world that was Oxford, and earn their degrees. But he was scarcely finished; he had countless other plans to implement, and thousands of ideas to contemplate. His exhaustion was such that it was no wonder that he was oblivious to the sound of his door creaking open, and an intruder making his way hastily in. The _thump-thump_ of the man's heavy boots did not even cause Ralph to flinch in his peaceful sleep; perhaps that would've been the end of him if not for the diabolical, sadistic part of Roger that insisted his victim been awake during his final hours.

"Ralph, you old pigheaded fool, wake up! You will be awake when I put an end to you, for what is the fun in it if you weren't? Then I wouldn't have any pleasure, any at all; it would be too quick, too quick; too painless; too dull…" Roger muttered to himself, in a wild, half-crazed way. "Get up, you, right now!" And at last poor Ralph was aroused from his slumber. Even through the dense fog of his fatigue, he recognized that the moment he had been dreading since that horrific last day on the island was finally upon him. This realization was accompanied by myriad thoughts, the primary one being a sense of relief that his waiting had finally come to an end. He felt comforted by this realization, albeit surprised; had he imagined this day in the years previous he never would have expected this would be his reaction. He steeled himself for the terrors that were to come, resolving that he would go down with dignity.

"Ha. You recognize me, don't you?"

"Roger." He pronounced the name of his foe with a sense of regret and disdain. "I have been expecting you for quite some time."

Roger leered. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"With what, may I ask? Still bent on finishing what you set out to do, so very many years ago? Is your need for revenge so strong, it leads you to my place of residence a full twenty years after our childhood incidents? Let it go, I beg of you. Reach into yourself and ask yourself if this is what you really want to be doing. You know, despite everything, I had high hopes for you. Alas, it seems that you haven't reformed at all. What have you been doing these last few years? Or perhaps it is best that I remain in the dark for that particular subject."

"Ha. High hopes? That's a good one. And I'm sure that I want to do this. Really sure. In fact, I think that this might be the funnest thing I've done in my life. Much more satisfying than killing pigs." And with that, he raised his club, and swung down hard.

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On that very same tempestuous and blustery night, Jack sat in the comforts of his large manor house, contemplating a great deal of things. He had tried, time and time again, to go to sleep, but there was something in his subconscious that was disturbing him greatly; something nagging at the back of his mind; but it eluded his grasp. He paced, back and forth and back and forth, his shoes wearing down a spot in the floorboards. This was strange. Since when had he ever been perturbed by something so deeply that it kept him awake? He prided himself on being a solitary and rather unaffected fellow, not in the least bit emotional. But after hours of pacing, he finally figured it out; and upon doing so, was utterly astounded. _No, that can't be it, _he thought. But deny it all he may, he couldn't escape the fact that what had been pestering him all this time was that tonight was the fateful night in which, on his orders, Roger was going to dispense with Ralph once and for all. Even though it was on his initiative and careful planning that this event was set into motion; even though he had contemplated the subject in depth several times; even though he believed himself to have no scruples on the subject, in this instant he discovered that he had been wrong about himself: he wasn't a hardened criminal, or a diabolical one like Roger; he was a man who had committed a great many of unspeakable deeds but now had the opportunity to do something right for the first time. And he wanted that, he wanted that desperately; to be able to look back on this day, this moment, with pride. With that realization, he gathered up his coat and ran downstairs, out of the house, and into the street where he hailed a taxi frantically.

"Take me to Oxford immediately. I need to be there in ten minutes. No excuses. I'll pay you extra. Go now." The taxi driver did as told without question, and he was off, speeding into the night.

Ten minutes later, though it seemed like an eternity to Jack, the taxi dropped him off at Ralph's door. Without a second's hesitation, he burst in, and yelled, "Ralph!" The sight that greeted him was gruesome; Ralph, on the ground, bloodied and barely hanging on to consciousness, and Roger, poised with a heavy-looking club standing over top of him.

At first Roger just stared at Jack. "What?!" He sputtered. "You want… you want… you…" In his rage and befuddlement, he seemed to not be able to get the words out. When they did, his tone implied that he thought Jack to be completely mental. "You're siding with him now?"

"Exactly. I'm glad that got through your thick head." Jack stated calmly. "No more violence. You've unleashed your share of misery on this world, and it ends now. Leave."

Disregarding his employer's wishes, Roger laughed maniacally and raised his club once more. Ralph winced, preparing himself for the blow.

"This is over. You are a pathetic excuse of a human being." Jack said this with such authority and aplomb, Roger surprisingly stopped mid-swing, but didn't put down his weapon.

"No," he snarled. "I won't. And if you're such a sissy that you can't go through with the plans that you yourself came up with, then I will dispose of both of you. Pathetic. I knew you were a coward." And with yet another of his trademark diabolical grins, this one surpassing all of the others in its ferocity, he lifted his club to deliver the final blow. But he never made it, for mid-swing, a loud _caraccckkk _of gunfire sounded, and Roger toppled over, dead. Jack stared in amazement at what he had done. But it was over now, and nothing he could do would change what had just happened. Ralph and Jack stared at one another in mutual horror, neither believing the spectacle that had just unfolded before their eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, Jack roused himself from his stupor and made his way towards the door. He opened it to reveal the breaking of dawn, and what appeared to be the beginning of a perfectly lovely day (which was certainly a welcome change after last night's tempest). Both men stared quietly at it, each immersed in their own thoughts.

"Perhaps it is true, the saying that the darkest hour of the night comes just before dawn." Jack commented, breaking the silence that had ensued after Roger's death.

"You are undoubtedly right about that." Ralph answered in a rather pensive manner. He paused thoughtfully before adding, "Thank you. For, you know…" He trailed off uncertainly. "Saving my life." This pronouncement was met with merely a nod, as Jack made as though to walk out. But before he did so, he turned his head and said quietly over his shoulder,

"I never thought the day would come that I would say this. But I suppose that tonight is proof that even the most unlikely and improbable things have a way of happening. And so, in that spirit, I must admit to you that I'm sorry. For everything." And so he was. It seemed as though that one morsel of goodness in his heart had won out after all. Perhaps it is true, that all humans have that common flaw of potential for evil; but then again, it is also true that all humans have the potential for good as well.


End file.
